There are songs that feel like memories.
And then there are songs that are memories.
This one is you.
It’s your truck rattling down back roads
with dust rising behind us
like something trying to follow
but never catching up.
It’s the way your voice filled small spaces —
cab of the truck,
my ribs,
all the quiet places inside me
that were finally starting to feel warm.
You didn’t just sing it.
You lived in it.
Low, soft, a little wild —
like you’d been everywhere
and still chose to be right there
next to me.
And I remember watching you
when you didn’t think I was.
The way your eyes would flick over
just to check if I was still smiling.
Like you needed proof
I was real.
You were so beautiful it almost hurt —
that stupid bright, easy smile,
sun catching in your long blonde hair,
wind pulling pieces of you loose
like the world was trying
to take you back.
I thought I had time.
I thought songs stayed songs.
I thought moments stayed moments.
I thought people stayed.
But I know now —
I was the storm in something
that only needed calm.
I was the sharp word,
the missed feeling,
the moment I chose to be immature
over choosing you.
And I would give anything
to go back to that passenger seat
and just… listen.
The opening of it
feels like someone unlocking a room
I sealed shut.
I hear it echoing in my head
“Scar tissue that I wish you saw
Sarcastic mister know-it-all
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, 'cause
With the birds I'll share”
And suddenly I’m back there —
seatbelt digging into my shoulder,
air rushing in through open windows,
you drumming the steering wheel,
singing like you didn’t know
you were becoming something
I’d never be able to let go of.
I wish I had been softer.
I wish I had been better at understanding.
I wish I had known
how rare it was
to be looked at like that.
Because now
every note feels like proof
that something beautiful
can exist
and still not stay —
especially when I was the one
who let it slip through my hands.
I want to listen to it again.
I really do.
But I know the truth —
If I ever pressed play,
I wouldn’t just want the song.
I’d want your headlights in my driveway.
I’d want you telling me to get in.
I’d want the road and your music
and your hand reaching across the console
like it used to.
I’d want you to take me back to your place,
like time was something we could rewind,
like I hadn’t broken the quiet
we built around each other.
Because Scar Tissue
isn’t a song I can’t sing alone.
It catches in my throat
without your voice under mine.
It was never mine.
It was ours.
And some songs
don’t survive
the person who taught you
how to hear them.